


The Napoléon Chronicles Part I

by Tournesol



Series: The Napoléon Chronicles [1]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, Cuddling & Snuggling, Enjolras and Grantaire live in rooms across from each other, Enjolras gets to ogle, Fluff, Huddling For Warmth, M/M, hint hint Naopléon is not a megalomaniac emperor with a height complex in this, puppy, yes Enjolras no matter what you think you're doing you're definitely ogling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-14
Updated: 2014-01-14
Packaged: 2018-01-08 16:29:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1134904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tournesol/pseuds/Tournesol
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire rescues a puppy from the street. Enjolras has no choice but help him. In more ways than one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Napoléon Chronicles Part I

**Author's Note:**

  * For [greetingsprogramms](https://archiveofourown.org/users/greetingsprogramms/gifts).



> The amazing [How the Future's Done by barricadeur](http://archiveofourown.org/works/725065) inspired me to write this for a friend who's more of a dog lover than a cat lover. I loved the idea of Grantaire rescuing a pet and Enjolras having to reluctantly take a part in it. I didn't know whether to use the "work inspired by" feature or not because although it is technically inspired by it, it's a different verse and the setting/era/circumstances are different and I don't want to mislead people? Please do let me know if I should change it accordingly.
> 
> Unbetaed so concrit welcomed.
> 
> Come find me on [tumblr](http://hugatreeortwo.tumblr.com).

It's past midnight he knows although he hasn't looked up the time and Enjolras is still sitting at his desk, scribbling. He'd like to think he's scribbling furiously but truth is, the fruits of what he's been trying to extricate from his brain for the past two hours hold in less than half a page.

It's been raining all day, a dull, uninterrupted downpour. Although many would find that surprising Enjolras has always loved the rain. The way it clatters on the rooftops, tapping against the windows as if it were playing the city like an instrument. Yes, the rain makes his beloved Paris sing and he would be a fool not to enjoy the show. People who have described Paris as being gray and cold when it rains are colorblind, he thinks. The rain makes every color more intense: the bricks are redder, the green of the trees richer, and the pavements glow as if the city was adorned with silver. Prodding through Enjolras' thoughts you might catch a glimpse of how he envisions Paris as very much alive. That he believes the rain washes the city clean, and infuses a bit of its inhabitants' lives so that when the water comes down the catacombs, it surrounds the skeletons and makes the dead city come to life. 

Yes, Enjolras has always loved the rain, but not tonight. The dull sound that used to envelop Enjolras in a calming sense of alleviation is creeping his bones with worry. It's cold for a night of April, and Grantaire has not come home yet. Enjolras doesn't want to admit that this is the reason he's up this late and not for the cause but he doesn't want to surrender to slumber until he's sure Grantaire is safe and warm in his bed and not dead drunk in a ditch somewhere, dying of hypothermia. 

He sometimes resents Grantaire for thinking so less of his own life so as to act in such a reckless manner, and Enjolras feels his concern for the cynic drunkard's well being as a thorn in his side, though he cannot quite put a finger on the nature of the ever present weight he feels on his shoulders. And yet how can Grantaire know how much he matters when Enjolras never voices it? Enjolras doesn't want to linger on his feelings for the dark haired man when they are now coupled with frustration, concern and guilt.

He's brought back from his gloomy reverie by a clatter in the downstairs hallway, followed by the sound of footsteps in the staircase that he's now familiar with and knows to only be Grantaire's. 

He doesn't close his eyes and sigh with relief, as if a weight has been lifted off his chest. At least that's what he tells himself. He hears Grantaire curse in the hall and decides to see for himself if the other man is alright. 

Grantaire has his back to him and is fumbling with his doorknob. When Grantaire turns to face the blond upon hearing him, Enjolras is not prepared for the sight of it. Grantaire is dripping wet, the sleeves of his white shirt rendered almost transparent, clinging to his arms, and his waistcoat darkened by the rain. He is stripped of his much too light coat, which he is cradling carefully in a bundle in his arms. Classic reckless Grantaire. Enjolras feels mixed emotions, both relief and fury. He wants to yell at Grantaire to deflate the storm of thoughts his head houses but he is stopped short when he notices two pairs of eyes staring at him. The first he knows well, big round blue eyes so expressive he can feel them whenever they are upon him. The second however he doesn't know as they are dark and round and peeking from Grantaire's coat. Enjolras' own eyes widen. 

“Grantaire... What's in the coat?”

He tries to sound less angry than he is, but he feels he's not going to like whatever answer Grantaire comes up with.

“Okay, I know how this looks but let me explain, I had no other choice alright? Found this little fellow all alone in the street and, I mean, look at those eyes, it was doomed if it were to stay another night like this outside in the cold... I took pity...”

“This is a terrible idea Grantaire. A dog, really? Would you know how to care for it?”

He has to refrain from adding “when you can barely take care of yourself” but Grantaire is able to read the silent statement on his face anyway. After a pause, Enjolras continues:

“A dog. Dogs are disgusting. Dogs barks. Dogs ruin your belongings and your furniture. Also, this is a huge responsibility Grantaire, not something you can undertake and dismiss in a few days... Not to mention that this creature must be ridden with fleas and god knows what else. Just ask Joly, I'm sure he'd be anxious to inform you of all the diseases this thing must carry, that is, until you pass the quarantine period he'll set for you and me when he learns about this...”

Grantaire's eyes look pleading and Enjolras cannot fail to see the similarity between them and the puppy's in his arm. At this moment he's staring at two pairs of puppy dog eyes. Very convincing puppy dog eyes. Enjolras pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes for a few seconds, trying to ignore that Grantaire cannot be reasoned with. He lets the notion sink in and feels he's yielding. 

“Look,” says Grantaire, shivering, with his lips turning blue from the cold. “I've put some water to boil downstairs, I'll bathe it to warm it up and clean it. I just need a favor, I won't bother you ever again after this I swear, but can you hold it to keep it warm while I light the fire in my room?”

It's going to take Grantaire at least fifteen minutes to light a fire in his room in the state he's in, and at least an hour before his room warms up to a decent temperature, thinks Enjolras. He prepares carefully what he's about to say in his head so as to not make his concern apparent to Grantaire, and decides to coat his words with anger instead. That's how it is between them. He'd rather appear angry and cruel to him than admit his concern, which Grantaire would only take, wrongfully, as pity. 

Enjolras thinks there's nothing Grantaire loathes more (besides himself) than when people pity him, when he fails to see how Grantaire basks in Enjolras' attention when it is upon him, be it lofty pity or scorn. So they do this little dance around each other where they fight, because anger is the most intense emotion they allow themselves to feel at each other, for fear of something else they're both afraid to name. 

“Goddammit to hell Grantaire... You're not going anywhere. Now is not the time to fiddle in your room, your lips are turning blue for god's sake... just...” he sighs, and there's still outrage in his voice when he speaks again. “Go sit by the fire in my room before you die of consumption.You're the one in need of a hot bath for crying out loud. Why do you have to be so reckless all the time? Is this all a game to you?” Harsh, but Enjolras knows Grantaire will only comply if he's left no choice. Tentative offers of help from Enjolras would only be answered in the negative. Not that Enjolras has ever volunteered to help Grantaire.

For once, Grantaire is too tired and too cold to argue. There are deep circles under his eyes from the lack of sleep and the abuse of alcohol and his hair is dripping heavy drops on the floor and rivulets of water are streaming down his neck. He silently goes in Enjolras' room while the blond goes downstairs to fetch the warm water.

He can't get himself to move or get out of his wet clothes, and even close to the fire it feels as if the warmth of the flames won't penetrate through the barrier of cold, but as he looks down on the animal in his arms, he feels a peculiar wave of warmth light up from within. He discards the wet coat, which now shields the tiny dog from the heat. It doesn't look like much, a tiny gray creature freckled with dark and light spots, with tiny drooping ears. It mustn't be older than two months.

It's been a while since he cared for anything other than Enjolras, and at this moment, in the warmth of Enjolras' room, he wonders if it's not this tiny dog who saved him and not the other way around. Or maybe they mutually saved each other, Prouvaire would say. 

The puppy is licking the inside of his cold hand. The idea of someone relying on him and appreciating him without asking anything in return is completely alien to Grantaire, and the prospect of having this new responsibility grounds him instead of crushing him. He begins to feel he's developing a fever because it's been a while since he felt so content with himself, that is without the help of the bottle.

When Enjolras comes back to his room, he sobers at the sight of a shivering Grantaire with the dog in his lap, every angry thoughts discarded. He sets a small basin next to Grantaire and fills it with warm water. He strips off his red coat, which he puts carefully on the back of his desk chair, and he rolls the sleeves of his white shirt up to his elbows, exposing the fine muscles of his forearms. Grantaire is aghast. He never thought Enjolras would ever do this and the idea of Enjolras caring for a puppy is suddenly hilarious to Grantaire, who lets a shaky laugh escape. 

“What's so funny?” Enjolras asks.

“You are. Look at you, Enjolras, getting your hands dirty for the common canis lupus familiaris,” smirks Grantaire.

“Well, you know me, I'm a man of the people, everybody counts or nobody counts. I'd be a hypocrite not to abide by my own principles. That's why you go first.” It's Enjolras' time to smirk now, his last remark having effectively erased the smile off of Grantaire's face. “Take off your clothes. They're wet and you'll never get warm with them on.”

Grantaire tries but his limbs have been numbed by the cold, and he is crouched on the little chair, shivering and fumbling at the buttons of his waistcoat without success. Without a word, Enjolras kneels before him, tries not to touch the dog. He looks Grantaire in the eyes, a question, and when Grantaire nods slightly, Enjolras makes a quick work of the buttons. 

The puppy jumps awkwardly from Grantaire's lap to sit on the coat where it's discarded on the floor. Enjolras pushes the waistcoat off Grantaire's shoulders, and as much as he tries not to touch, he can't help but notice how cold Grantaire is. He puts the waistcoat on the string he tied between two beams of the ceiling, over the fireplace, to let his clothes dry during the winter. He then grabs the hem of Grantaire's shirt, who raises his arms with difficulty to help, and the shirt is off. It's difficult not to stare. Grantaire is a fine specimen of a man, you wouldn't guess behind all the layers, but his shoulders curve gracefully and although he's not excessively muscular, like Bahorel, his chest is still nicely toned, well defined, with a patch of dark chest hair on his sternum. And his stomach, while flat, is not devoid of muscle. While he is not staring, something on Grantaire's chest catches Enjolras' eyes. A splatter of ink above his left pectoral, the letter R, the same capital R Grantaire signs his correspondence with. Tattooed on Grantaire's chest.

“What the hell is this?” asks Enjolras, his gaze going from the five centimeter long tattoo to Grantaire's eyes. His hand ghosts over the tattoo, not quite touching. He's not seen that many tattoos, except on the arms of sailors once when he'd been visiting Cherbourg.

Grantaire chuckles darkly... “It's for identification purposes mon ami. Should my drunken corpse be found someday cold in a ditch, as you so often put it, this guarantees my not ending in the pauper's grave if no one notices I'm gone. Not that I should care when I'm dead, to finish as an anonymous among others, ashes to ashes, dust to dust they say alright? Well, only, the idea would be abhorrent to my sister and dead mother, so, out of respect for them, I had myself branded, like they do some animals.” 

Enjolras is speechless. Another cynic scar on Grantaire. It's the first time he has talked of his mother. How does Grantaire manage to seem to care and not care at all at the same time? He spoke in the tone of bitter pleasantry, like he always does, no matter how grim a subject like this is... Enjolras does not know how to respond to this. His index finger and his thumb brush lightly across the tattoo of their own volition, assessing it on Grantaire's smooth cold skin. Enjolras and Grantaire both catch their breath. Does Grantaire really think his life doesn't count at all? They stare at each other for a few seconds, when the puppy yelps, snapping their attention away from each other, and the moment is over. 

They resume the task at hand, namely getting Grantaire out of his soaked through boots and trousers. Enjolras is the one is unfastening the buttons as he did with the waistcoat, under Grantaire's rapt scrutiny, only it's getting difficult not to pay attention to the trail of hair that dips under Grantaire's waistline. 

Grantaire is half naked now, and his chest is beaded with drops of water which reflect the flames in the fireplace, and his cold white skin, rendered whiter even by the cold, shows his blue veins and Enjolras has to struggle not to run his fingers over them, from where they branch out from his chest to his shoulders. Enjolras dips a cloth in the warm water and runs it over Grantaire's face and neck, going over the corded muscles of his throat. The almost touch through the fabric is too much and not enough at the same time, for both of them. Grantaire has never been this vulnerable, the warm water and Enjolras' hands feel incredible on his skin, and he is still shivering although he's not sure it's from the cold anymore. 

He's almost panting when Enjolras trails the cloth over his chest, over the tattoo as if he could erase it somehow. He wishes he could wash away the cynical thoughts off of Grantaire the way the rain washes the dirt out of the Parisian streets, and he sighs knowing the difficulty of the task. He's too far gone anyway, not to take Grantaire the way he is.

The washing and warming done, Enjolras grabs a dry cloth, and positioning himself behind Grantaire, proceeds to dry the dark mass of wet curls. Grantaire closes his eyes, his dark long lashes casting strange shadows on his cheeks, and leans his head with abandon into Enjolras' nimble hands. Nothing has felt so good, no liquor, no drugs, no promiscuous night with a mistress, than this. 

Enjolras enjoys the view from this vantage point, the way Grantaire's neck tendons flex, making drops of water run down the dips and hollows of the column of his throat and in the crests of his collarbones, the way his chest heaves with each breath, the v of his legs and his naked feet. It's a feast for the eyes and Enjolras can't help but commit this to memory. 

And then Grantaire is dry and there's no excuse for Enjolras to touch him so he grabs the extra wool blanket from his bed and hands it over to Grantaire, who wraps himself in it. They glance away from each other to the puppy, who will not escape the necessary bath. Enjolras rolls up his sleeves again, which had strayed a little during his ministrations to Grantaire. Grantaire holds the puppy in the basin, while Enjolras rubs the creature's fur with a little bit of soap. The tiny animal doesn't complain much, especially when Enjolras scratches it behind its ears, too content for the warmth and the attention it receives. Grantaire smiles as he watches Enjolras' face so focused, his brow slightly furrowed. That's the most domestic he's ever been, and he's glad to share this moment with Enjolras. This is not surviving, this, this is home. 

After the last of the lather has been rinsed and the little dog dried, Grantaire, exhausted, takes it on his lap after sitting down on the edge of Enjolras' bed, much to his dismay. 

“You can sleep here since the fire is not lit in your room.” Enjolras says dispirited. Although the idea of sharing his bed with Grantaire is not so unpleasant. A necessity, he tells himself, for Grantaire's health.“But the dog stays on the floor. I draw the line at one animal only in my bed,” jokes Enjolras. 

Grantaire's eyes widen. He replies, deadpan, but smiling: “See? I KNEW you had a sense of humor hidden somewhere underneath that marble exterior of yours. I hope you didn't ask for politeness' sake in the hope that I would decline, because I'm in no condition to refuse the offer.”

“You know I mean what I say, I'm not one for petty politeness.” Enjolras gets closer to Grantaire to appraise him, and seeing he is still shivering, puts his hands on Grantaire's arms and starts to rub in hopes that the friction will warm him up. Grantaire doesn't want this to stop but after he yawns for the third time, Enjolras urges him to lie down. Grantaire complies without argument, for once, after resiliently putting the little dog down at the foot of the bed. Enjolras joins him, same as him: sans shirt and sans trousers. Grantaire is still shivering so bad that he can't fall asleep and thus also prevents Enjolras from falling asleep.

Enjolras bites his lip because he knows something that could remedy to the problem, but it involves holding Grantaire skin on skin, to share body warmth. That would be the fastest way. The idea is as appealing as it is mortifying. But Grantaire is suffering. So after an internal struggle, Enjolras broaches the subject to Grantaire. Who groans. And accepts. Because like Enjolras Grantaire believes this idea is as mortifying as it is appealing. A night in Enjolras' blazing body heat. He cannot refuse such an offer. So he accepts, and they both say that it's for the greater good. For medical purposes. 

Tentatively, Enjolras crawls closer to Grantaire, not that the bed is wide to begin with. They're both lying on their sides, Grantaire with his back to Enjolras, and the blond snuggles closer and puts his arm around the dark haired man. He is practically breathing hot breaths down Grantaire's neck, and he can smell the pleasant rainy scent that comes off Grantaire's curls. Not an unpleasant way to sleep they both think, as they spoon and Grantaire's shivering decreases. 

“Not a word about this to anyone, ” threatens Enjolras to Grantaire's ear. “Especially Courfeyrac, understood?”

“Especially not Courfeyrac.” acquiesces Grantaire. “Hey,” continues Grantaire.

“What?”

“We should find a name for the dog.”

“WE? That's YOUR dog Grantaire. I will not take part in this. And tonight is the only exception it's allowed in my room.”

“You're no fun. Wait. I found it. Found the perfect name for it.”

“Well?”

“Napoléon.”

After a bit where the tension thickens, Enjolras replies “are you mocking me Grantaire? We're not naming this dog Napoléon, that's not happening. And what if it's a she??” Enjolras is outraged. Grantaire could swear he's feeling the heat from Enjolras' face flushing from indignation.

“We? I thought there was no we, and that it was my dog. Therefore, the decision is mine. Napoléon it is. Marius will be thrilled. And I don't care if it's a she, you say that as if gender matters. You would have had no qualms if I had proposed say, Camille. Who gets to declare that Camille is a suitable name for both boys and girls and Napoléon isn't?”

Enjolras sighs loudly against the nape of Grantaire's neck. “Grantaire. We are not arguing over the attribution of names. Not tonight. Go to sleep.” 

Grantaire just grins in the dark.

Enjolras closes his eyes but sleep won't come, not with the alien sensation of Grantaire huddled so close against him. Though alien the feeling is not unpleasant altogether, it doesn't feel like the imposition he thought it would be.

When he is sure Grantaire is asleep, judging by the calm rhythm of his breathing, he murmurs to his ear “I would notice if you were gone, Grantaire, I would claim you you know?” and then, as he can't fight exhaustion any longer, slumber finally claims him.

+++

In the morning, Enjolras wakes up on his back with Grantaire half sprawled on top of him, his arm slung across his chest and his leg tangled with his. The puppy (which he won't refer to as Napoléon) has climbed the bed during the night, and is fast asleep, curled between the two of them. Enjolras sigh. It's a battle lost in advance.


End file.
